


All The Time

by CorrineWrites



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Character Analysis, yet again a tiny line sparks a fic from me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-27
Updated: 2016-04-27
Packaged: 2018-06-04 21:17:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6675748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorrineWrites/pseuds/CorrineWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I know that copper. A fat old coward with all the brains of, ah-ha, a pig. He stinks of fear all the time.” - Feet Of Clay</p>
            </blockquote>





	All The Time

“What is it you're afraid of?”

Fred started, and spun around. He'd thought himself alone in the Yard's locker room, but found Angua staring intently at him. 

“Huh.. wh, what?” He stammered, distractedly fingering his neck - a habit which, despite now being used to and even respecting Angua, he'd found himself unable to break.

She sighed. “I don't mean me. I've been watching you – smelling, really – and you're scared nearly all of the time.” Her tone wasn't unkind, but this was clearly something she'd decided to be direct about. “So what is it?”

Fred nearly laughed. What was he afraid of? She seemed to think that it'd be a simple answer, that there was one, easily-remedied thing which hung over him, swinging lower and lower towards his head. No. In fact, Fred Colon was afraid of everything.

He'd spent most of his life pacing the city, running from, and recently – horrifyingly – towards danger. He was afraid of finding himself in the wrong place at the wrong time in the wrong person's way, and ending up another body on the city's streets.

He saw Sam Vimes fighting the structures that kept them all in their places, raging against men more powerful even than himself, and was afraid that one day he'd push too hard and be lost to them forever. He saw the protection and indulgence that Vimes was granted by the Patrician, and feared that one day the price would be too high, the scales wouldn't tip in their favour. One day Vetinari would change the world with a few words.

He saw Angua use her reputation to her advantage, hold her head high, and worried about her. Not in the way she'd think – well, apart from the neck thing – but that one day it'd become too much, the taunts, the fearful glances, the iron grip of self-control. He worried about her running and leaving her new family far behind, about Carrot Completely Understanding her choice but being unable to quite mask the heartbreak.

He heard the men in the pub talking, men that he'd grown up with, men like him who'd heard things from other men like them and spat them back out because they didn't know any better. He was afraid of them, afraid of speaking up and correcting them, afraid he'd lose the friends he'd kept in order to remind himself that he was more than just another copper.

He listened to their griping, felt the glances when out on patrol with dwarves or trolls or whomever, saw the flashes of cultural anger in the Watch canteen, and was afraid of it all collapsing around them. Of another revolution. Of fragile species relations breaking down and it being dwarf vs. troll, vampire vs. werewolf, humans vs. everyone. He thought back to his time in the regiments and knew he wouldn't last another war.

He woke some nights, trembling and sweating with the echoes of rolling fire above him. Even stronger than his fear of dragons was his fear of Lady Sybil finding out and inviting him over to meet some because 'they're such dears really.'

He went out drinking with Nobby and sat in silent dread of the younger man's inevitable emotional slumps, of the tears and nightmares. He was afraid of saying the wrong thing, of not being good enough at... feelings and stuff to be there for his friend. 

He'd stumble home, seeing the lights in other people's windows, terrified that this would be the night he came back to no note, no wife. Finding an empty house he never wanted to return to again.

He saw Mister Vimes rub his face, deliberately not reach down to his bottom drawer, and was afraid of it all getting too much for poor Sam, of him picking up the bottle again and doing a more thorough job of drowning himself in it. Afraid of losing it all, of the Watch crumbling once more until it was just Vimes, himself and Nobby. Afraid that that was all it ever had been and that all of this was just a strange and fanciful dream. 

He felt the weight of these and more fears and worried that one day they'd finally descend on him, crushing, suffocating him, and that would be it.  
Angua was watching him expectantly. 

“I don't know what you mean.” He said stiffly, pulling his helmet from it's hook and ramming it on his head. “Excuse me sergeant, I've got patrol.”

He hurried out, hearing Angua sigh behind him, and worried that she'd keep trying to expose him.


End file.
